Heartless
by jasmine105
Summary: While investigating a gruesome murder in a decaying neighborhood, Horatio meets an intriguing woman who runs the community soup kitchen. While offering hope to the poor people in her community, Horatio begins to wonder if she will be able to offer him hope, as well.
1. Chapter 1

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter One - Matters of the Heart

He stood in the large basement of the once imposing Saint Ignatius Catholic Church. The area in which the shabby, but still genteel sanctuary was located had been at one time a prosperous one, and the church had been one of the most important anchors of the once bustling, middle class neighborhood. But over time, the businesses near the church had slowly dried up and the formerly pretty homes had fallen into disrepair. Wealthier residents and merchants had long since moved to the newer, trendier parts of Miami, leaving in their wake an old neighborhood that was sad, broken down, decaying. Now, Saint Ignatius was the only reminder of the neighborhood's affluent past.

Horatio Caine removed his sunglasses and studied his surroundings. Painted on the basement's beige walls in large, cheerful red letters were the words: THE KITCHEN OF HOPE. Underneath in smaller, black script was painted a bible verse: 'As for me, I will always have hope... Ps. 71:14.'

_Hope_.

Horatio didn't see what hope there was for many of the room's occupants. It was filled with men and women who appeared down on their luck. They looked weary and their faces were grim with disappointment. Their shoulders slumped forward with dejection as they waited in line to get the only hot meal they were likely to eat that day. His nose wrinkled at the slight stench of too many sweaty, unbathed bodies in the hot room, and he watched as earnest volunteers spooned mounds of mashed potatoes, slabs of meat loaf with gravy, string beans and hot dinner rolls onto waiting plates.

Inexpensive food, but hot. And nourishing.

Carrying their plates of food, the hungry men and women walked toward the long, scarred wooden tables, and sat down quickly, barely able to restrain themselves from hastily gulping down the food.

A woman of middle age, dressed in a plain, black dress and sensible shoes, and sporting a short black veil with a narrow strip of white around its edging, walked among the tables, pouring iced water and coffee into paper cups for her 'patrons.' Horatio caught her eye and beckoned to her.

The woman called another volunteer over, handed him the water pitcher and coffee pot, and walked to where Horatio was standing. She looked at him quizzically. "Something I can do for you, sir?" she asked, her voice and manner kind, but brisk.

"Yes ma'am," he said, pushing his jacket back from his hip, and displaying his lieutenant's badge. "I'm Lieutenant Caine and I'm with the MDPD's Crime Scene Investigation unit. There was a murder in this neighborhood over night... my people are investigating."

"Ah, yes. I'd heard... a young woman, correct? Very sad," she replied. "Heart-breaking. Lieutenant, I'm Sister Mary-Martha."

"You run this soup kitchen?"

"I help. Can I ask what this is about?"

"Sister, I have two neighborhood witnesses who say that the last time they saw the victim - Theresa Lopez - was around eight o'clock last evening. She was seen standing outside the church, speaking to a man that neither witness was familiar with. Whatever had been said upset Ms. Lopez and she turned to walk away. Hours later, she was found murdered. It was not a pretty sight, Sister... it was brutal."

Horatio closed his eyes for a moment. He'd seen some pretty horrific things in his time as a law enforcement officer, and he was not one to be squeamish... but the sight of that beautiful, young Hispanic woman, left in the alley behind an old abandoned building, made his gorge rise. Someone had opened the girl up and removed her heart. She lay there, her open chest a bloody crater. Suppressing an inner shudder, Horatio looked at the nun who was observing him intently.

"Brutal," she said, her eyes distressed as she repeated Horatio's descriptor. "Yes, I can see the effects of the murder on you, Lieutenant. What can we do to help?"

Horatio pulled from the inside pocket of his jacket an artist's rendering of the man that Teresa Lopez had last been seen with and handed it to the Sister.

"Do you think this is the man who murdered the girl?" she asked.

"He is a person of interest. We want to find him... talk to him. Does he look familiar to you, Sister? Perhaps he came here for a meal sometimes?"

Sister Mary-Martha studied the drawing. "It is not very clear, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Horatio agreed. It had been dark when the two neighborhood women had spotted the man with Lopez, and they had been standing on the other side of the street. Their recollections about his appearance had been vague, but it was all Horatio had at the moment. "Think hard, Sister... does the drawing remind you of anyone you've seen here, even slightly?"

She continued to study the drawing for several long seconds and then shook her head. Regretfully, she handed the drawing back to Horatio. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. He doesn't look familiar to me at all."

Disappointed, Horatio nodded and started to put the drawing back inside his jacket.

"But," she continued, "you may wish to speak with Catherine... I only help out with the kitchen a few times a week. Catherine is the heart and soul of the organization, and the founder. Would you like to meet her?"

"I would. Can you tell me where I can find her?"

"Right here... she's about to speak." The Sister pointed to a slightly raised platform in the center of the room where a tall, willowy brunette now stood, looking out upon the assemblage. The people had grown talkative as they ate their meal. Horatio heard a female somewhere behind him mutter, "Damned do-gooder."

Catherine's sapphire blue eyes darted about the room, and then looked down at a piece of paper she held in her hands. A lock of her short, dark brown hair fell over one eye, and Horatio watched as she unconsciously swept it back with a flick of her fingers. Something about the gesture touched him; it had a vulnerability to it that seemed at odds with the capable image the youngish woman projected.

Clearing her throat, she began to speak in a strong, musical voice. "Okay, okay, people... can I have your attention, please?"

The murmurings slowly stopped as the diners looked up at the determined woman. In the back of the basement, a gruff voice complained, "First the grub, then the sermon. Always the way... Here it comes."

Horatio saw that Catherine heard the remark, and watched as a smile flitted across her face. "Excuse me... who said that? Oh come on, you don't have to be afraid. Come on... who was it?"

Seated at a table in the very back of the room, a fifty-three year old African American painfully rose to his feet. Horatio could see he had some sort of physical impairment, and he was holding onto the table, as if to take pressure off a hurting body part.

"Hi Charlie," said Catherine grinning, her blue eyes dark with amusement. "I thought it was you. So, tell me - you enjoying the 'grub' tonight, if not the anticipated 'sermon?'"

The man had the grace to look abashed. "You know how it is, Sister Cat... a man's tired, hot, hungry. I was out lookin' for work all damn day - pardon me, ma'am - I mean I was lookin' for work all day. Nothing. Now alls I want is a meal and a place to flop for the evenin' - don't want to hear no damned sermon - pardon me, ma'am... I mean, I don't want to hear no sermon."

The man painfully sat down and looked up at Catherine. There were rings of tiredness around his eyes. Watching her closely, Horatio could see the man's weariness touched Catherine.

"I know, Charlie. Look, people, I'll make it brief. I know you're tired and hungry. And I know you're dispirited. It's hard out there on the streets... No jobs to be found. Government programs being discontinued. Crime. Drugs. Seems sometimes that there isn't much hope. Isn't that right?

Dozens of pairs of eyes looked up at her, and several heads began nodding in agreement. "You speakin' the truth there, Sister!" a female voice called out. The heavy-set white woman sitting next to her chimed in, "That's right!"

"Well, I'm not going to let any of you slide into hopelessness. I'm going to be here every day, offering you a hearty meal. That's a promise. And for those of you who need a place to sleep tonight, we've set up some cots in another part of this basement. Now that's temporary, people. We're not running a hotel, but it's a place to sleep for a few days for those of you who need it.

"Now, I know of some work that some of you can do around here - won't pay much, but it just isn't about the money, is it? It's about having pride in yourself. A man... a woman... well, you need to have some sort of work. Everyone needs something to do."

"You think we haven't been looking for work?" demanded an embittered Latino. "There ain't no jobs out there. My wife, my baby - they're living with her parents because I can't find no work!"

Catherine nodded sympathetically. "I do know you've all been searching for some kind of work. I know it isn't easy! I have some contacts - know some people who can help some of you find some temporary work - yard work, repairs, custodial. That sort of thing."

"Temporary ain't no good, Sister Cat. That be B.S. We need real jobs; permanent jobs," called out another voice.

Turning in the caller's direction, she replied, "You take what you can get, and be glad for it. And then we'll work on 'permanent.' The important thing is to do something, to not get discouraged. Everybody needs to feel useful... like they have a purpose. A body needs work - the heart needs a mission. Your mission is to take whatever temporary work you can get, do the best you can... and not give up hope. Maybe some of these jobs will turn into permanent work. The important thing is you're building an employment history... that'll help you when this economy turns around. It puts you a notch up on those just sitting in the streets.

"I believe things are going to change soon. For the better. We're going through some dark times, but I think if we hang on, hang together, if we look out for each other and work together... we can make those good days come sooner. I know this in my heart.

"Let me help... let me help you help yourselves. And then, once you're finally settled, you help the next person. That's how it works."

"Pay it forward, huh?" yelled out Charlie.

"That's right, Charlie. Now, after you've eaten, I'd like to ask the following people to come forward..."

Tilting his head, Horatio studied "Sister Cat." There was something about her that intrigued him, and he wondered what her story was. And whether she really believed the platitudes she was selling to the poor folks surrounding her. _She's a nun_, he thought; _no doubt she does._

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Horatio knocked on the old wooden door of one of the offices inside the church. "Come in," called the musical voice.

When Horatio walked into the room, the woman inside looked up. She had been entering data into a spreadsheet on her laptop. She gazed at the red-haired lieutenant for a moment, and her eyes flashed with interest and something else that was new to her. A friendly grin suddenly appeared on her face and she rose from behind the desk and offered Horatio her hand. "Lieutenant Caine?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you for seeing me." He pointed back toward the door behind him. "With all the work you have out there, I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, Sister."

"Well, Sister Mary-Martha told me about that poor woman's death..."

"Murder," corrected Horatio. Catherine raised her brows. "I like to be precise, Sister."

"I understand. I like to be precise as well, Lieutenant. And, precisely, I'm not a 'sister.'"

Startled and a bit embarrassed, Horatio looked closely at her. The short brown hair, the lack of makeup, the plain black dress - he'd just assumed she was a nun. As if reading his mind, Catherine grinned again.

"Don't look so uncomfortable, Lieutenant. You're not the first to make that mistake."

"I, uh, assumed... the people out there... they, uh, well, they were calling you 'Sister Cat.'"

"Oh that... Well, look back here, Lieutenant," she said, laughing softly. She pointed to a small crate sitting on the floor behind her desk. Within the blanketed crate were four sleeping cats. One was obviously the mother, and three tiny fluff balls rested comfortably against her. Catherine placed her index finger against her lips as if to admonish Horatio to speak softly, and they moved away from the desk.

"I tend to collect stray cats... there are a lot of 'em around here, they're hungry, scared... I feel sorry for them."

Horatio tilted his head slightly, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. "Stray people, too, from what I've just observed."

Embarrassed, a soft, warm blush made its way across her cheeks.

"So," he continued, "if I can't address you as 'Sister," how do I address you?"

"I'm Catherine Kent."

"Okay... Catherine. And your job here is... ?"

"My job here is to help. Help these people get back on their feet again... somehow. The church struggles economically, and they do what they can to stay afloat. One thing they do is rent the basement out to me. I founded the Kitchen of Hope. I've had a good life, Lieutenant. My family has financial means. It's rather like that old Bible verse - 'to whom much is given, much will be expected.' I've been given a lot, Lieutenant."

Horatio nodded, "Paying it forward, Catherine?"

"Something like that. Now, what about you? How can I help _you_?"

For a brief moment, Horatio was confused. All thoughts of the investigation fled as he looked into Catherine's clear blue eyes. There was something about her that spoke to something inside him, but what was it?

"Lieutenant?" she repeated, her expression puzzled.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**_(Note: Apologies for interrupting the story for a note - I dislike doing so because I know how distracting it can be. Still, I thought I should mention that this story takes place an indeterminate time after the death of Marisol and events in Brazil - but before the appearance of Kyle and Julia. Thus, Kyle and Julia do not exist in this story's timeline. Horatio is, perhaps, in his early fifties.)_**

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Two - Minor Revelations

"Lieutenant Caine?" repeated the brunette. "How can I help you?"

Understanding that Catherine Kent was referring to the nature of his visit and not something more, Horatio gathered his thoughts. "I'd like you to take a look at this drawing. It's not very good, but maybe you'll notice something... maybe you've seen someone around here who looks like this guy. Witnesses saw him speaking to Theresa Lopez hours before she died."

Catherine took the drawing from Horatio and, studying it, slightly lowered her head. Horatio found himself staring at the soft hair curling about the nape of her neck, and experienced a moment of surprised delight when, lost in thought, she bit her pretty lower lip while concentrating on the paper in front of her. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to gently bite that sensitive flesh himself... to taste its sweetness. Bewildered by the direction his thoughts were taking, he mentally shook himself.

It had been some time since he'd last experienced such thoughts and it astonished him a bit. He didn't know this lady, and she wasn't really his type... not much like the women he'd been attracted to in the past. But there was something there... and he wasn't sure he liked it. Chemistry. Yes. Chemistry.

_And chemistry,_ _my friend,_ he warned himself, _can be a bitch._

In spite of the good advice, his eyes scanned the graceful, slender form in front of him. Amused at the droll direction his thoughts were taking, he momentarily wondered if this woman he'd previously thought a nun had someone in her life. Now that he studied her more closely, he saw that the plain, black dress didn't quite conceal the nice figure hiding beneath it.

Catherine looked up. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. This person doesn't look familiar to me at all."

"He was seen here, outside Saint Ignatius. I thought, perhaps, he'd come to the Kitchen... for a meal."

She looked again at the drawing. Finally, shaking her head, she returned it to Horatio. "Sorry - I can't recall him... but the drawing isn't all that good. The thing is, Lieutenant, he may have been here even though I don't recognize him. So many people come and go through the Kitchen and unless they are memorable - like Charlie - I have little recollection of them.

"Some that come here to eat are quiet, sullen; they have no desire for idle conversation. They're depressed. They want a meal. Afterward, if they have a place to sleep, they go to it. It's not like we take attendance or anything like that."

"Maybe you should," said Horatio, disappointed at the dead end.

She smiled understandingly. "I know... I'm not being much help, am I? But we're here to help the community... not police it. And if we did have a more structured system that tracked the people who used our service... well, the truth is, many of them would rather go hungry than have to sign in or do a roll call for some food.

"The only time we keep names is when we provide temporary work or refer certain people to employers. We have to in those cases. But, as I say, most folks come in sad, depressed, hungry... they don't do or say anything memorable that would make them stand out. They eat and then just drift out of here."

Horatio nodded. "Okay, point taken." He watched as her brows drew together and she bit that bottom lip again. "Catherine, is there something else?"

"It's probably nothing..."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"You said the man had been seen talking to Ms. Lopez outside the church?"

"Right."

"Well, it's probably nothing... but a few nights ago, I had stayed late to get through some of the Kitchen's paperwork... I guess it was after nine that I finally left the church. As I was leaving the building, I had an uneasy feeling. I felt someone was watching me, following me. But every time I turned around, there was no one there. Finally, I chalked it up to nerves and walked quickly on my way - and things were fine. But... it was creepy."

Horatio frowned. "Do you often leave the church at night... alone?"

"No, only occasionally."

"This isn't the best neighborhood, you realize. You should always walk with someone."

Catherine smiled. "Yes, you're right... but things sometimes happen that prevent that. Anyway, I can take care of myself."

"Perhaps Ms. Lopez thought the same."

Catherine's smile vanished. "Look, Lieutenant, I can't afford to be afraid of my neighborhood. These are my people... this is where I work, where I live. The people here... they know me, look out for me."

"You just told me that people come and go that you never recognize..."

Confused, Catherine paused. "Well, yes... but..."

Horatio waited.

"Okay, you got me," she said. "In the future, I guess I won't be leaving the building alone in the evenings."

"Good." _One less thing to worry about_, he thought.

Watching him, Catherine's eyes began to twinkle. "You know, I really can take care of myself. I've got some moves, Mister."

A smile appeared on Horatio's face. "Really? What sort of moves?"

"I took a self-defense class. I know a few basic moves... I think I could take somebody down who messed with me - at least long enough to get away from him. I learned a long time ago that a woman needs to know how to defend herself."

"Good for you... good for you. But don't let that go to your head - it's not wise to take chances.

"Do me a favor, keep this drawing. Take a close look at your people as they come in for meals. If anyone looks anything like the drawing, call me. If anyone acts strangely... looks strange... call me. And if you ever feel that someone is following you, definitely call me."

Horatio took a card from his jacket pocket and placed it on her desk. "Here's my office number. Don't be afraid to use it."

He walked toward the door and suddenly stopped. Slowly, he turned around and walked back. Looking into her eyes, he raised his brows as if surprised at himself and shrugged.

He leaned over and picked up a pen laying on her desk, and wrote something else on the card, and then straightened up. "I put my cell number on the back - don't be afraid to use that either... day or night."

Abruptly, he turned toward the door of the office and left.

After a moment, Catherine picked up the card. _Horatio Caine... what an odd name. Odd man. Perhaps it was his work that made him so intense, so focused. And grim._

Still, there had been a moment or two when she caught a bit of amusement dancing behind those serious eyes, and a wryness that she found appealing.

Briefly, she wondered what it would feel like to have those intense eyes focused on her for reasons other than police business. She shook the thought away, laughing at herself. _He thought I was a nun! Not a very flattering judgment._

Placing the card back on the desk, she pulled from her drawer a small compact mirror and looked critically at her reflection. _Well, you're no glamour girl for sure... nice cheekbones... and a little lipstick and eye makeup would help._ It had been a long time since she cared enough to think about makeup... the last time had been...

Her mind unwillingly drifted back to another man she had once cared enough to dress up for - and how she came to need those classes in self-defense. Shuddering, she pushed the thought back into the recesses of her mind. It was ancient history; no need to go there.

Her slender fingers pushed back the short, soft waves from her large blue eyes. People always told her she had beautiful eyes. She wondered if he noticed...

Suddenly irritated with herself, she shoved the small mirror back into her desk. _Get a grip! You're acting like an infatuated sixteen year old... and, no doubt, he's forgotten what you look like already. If he even noticed..._

Disgusted, she faced her laptop and again began tallying up the day's food inventory. Softly, in the background, she heard the mewling of one of the dreaming kittens and the sweet, gentle sound soothed her. After several minutes, she forgot about the handsome lieutenant - and the card laying on her desk.

* * *

Leaving the church, Horatio slid his sunglasses on and walked the several blocks to where the murder had occurred. His team had pretty much cleared away all evidence of the crime and were back at the lab. He looked around the dingy alley, surrounded by boarded up houses and some sort of abandoned building... a diner maybe.

He looked at his watch. Seven o'clock, and starting to get dark. _Won't need the sunglasses much longer,_ he mused.

"Horatio," called a familiar voice.

"Calleigh... you're still here. Why aren't you back at the lab?"

"Just looking around," said the pretty blond, "talking to some of the people in the neighborhood."

"Find out anything?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Neighborhoods like these... well, the people aren't real talkative. They're afraid of getting involved. Everyone gets a convenient sort of amnesia."

Horatio sighed. "Yes... well. Perhaps Tom will have something for us."

"This is big time creepy, Horatio. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it... no sign of the heart that was removed..."

"Which means our twisted friend may still have it. But why?"

"Souvenir? Fetish?"

"Maybe. Or perhaps he's part of a cult... and this involves some sort of religious rite..."

"Satanic?"

"I hope not, but can't rule it out."

Calleigh shivered. "You know, I once thought of being a kindergarten teacher."

Horatio glanced at her, surprise evident on his face. "Really?"

"Mm... but, much as I like kids, I thought I might get bored after awhile. Times like this, though... well, a little boredom doesn't sound so bad."

Horatio grinned. "Come on, let's get back to the lab." They started walking away from the crime scene. "You! A kindergarten teacher! You'd have missed all those lovely weapons in the vault at CSI."

"I suppose that's true. Did you find out anything at the soup kitchen? Anyone seen our guy?"

"No... seems they get too many people coming and going to pay much attention. I left a drawing there... hopefully, they'll start looking more closely at their diners.

"Interesting woman running the place, though..."

"Catherine Kent?"

Startled, Horatio glanced at her. "You know her name?"

"Sure. Didn't you?"

"No - not until today. How do you know her?"

"Well, I don't know 'know' her; I only know about her. You've heard of the Kent family right? Old money... lawyers."

Horatio thought. "Kent, Barton & Craig - those lawyers?"

"The very ones," smiled Calleigh. "That firm is seventy-five years old, with offices throughout the South. Pretty conservative; mainstream. The first Mr. Kent started the firm, and then partnered with Barton & Craig. Apparently, there's a lot of marrying between the families of the partners, and a lot of the children have gone into the firm. Catherine Kent is the 'wonky' family member."

"'Wonky?' In what way?"

"Didn't go into the practice of law - although she graduated from Harvard Law School. It was expected that she'd join her granddaddy's firm. Instead, she became a do-gooder - a real social engineer, from what I hear. Family isn't real happy with her. She's very well-off - in addition to money on her father's side, her mother was an heiress of some sort - coffee, I think. Anyway, this was in the Miami gossip magazines. Surprised you didn't know."

"There's a lot I don't know, apparently."

Calleigh grinned. "Guess you won't be making fun of my interest in gossip from now on, hey, boss?"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter Three - Eventide

_Saint Ignatius Catholic Church, 9:15 p.m._

Catherine Kent glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. _Damn_, she thought, noting the time. It was well after nine o'clock.

She rose from her desk and walked toward the sole window in the small room that functioned as her office in the old, decaying church. She had to stand on her toes to see out the tiny rectangular casement; it was situated close to the room's ceiling. Wrought iron bars protected the glass and served as a deterrent against break-ins. An attempt had been made to soften the dismal atmosphere created by the heavy black bars. Catherine had hung a cafe rod above the narrow space between the window sash and the ceiling, and thus a white, ruffled cotton valance draped itself cheerfully across the top of the window.

Brushing back a lock of dark brown hair from her eyes, she peered out onto the street. The view from the window was not inspiring; it was level with the sidewalk, and during the day afforded anyone caring to look a glimpse of scurrying feet, ankles and legs hastily rushing past the window.

Catherine frowned. There was no activity on the street at present. It was dark outside. In spite of her best intentions, she had lost track of time. She listened intently, hoping to hear the sound of others who might still be inside the building, but she heard nothing. Except for Geraldine, the mama cat, and her sleeping kittens in the crate behind Catherine's desk, Catherine was alone.

Turning from the window, a yawn escaped her. She was tired and shadows of weariness ringed her deep blue eyes. The day had been eventful. Though she had worked diligently, she had barely made a dent in the paperwork on her desk or addressed any of her many emails. She had planned to leave the office before sunset. Too many tasks, however, had prevented her from doing so. There were always so many things that required her attention: accounts to settle, food orders, inventory checks.

Then, too, were the appointments she had to schedule with the CEOs of large corporations; they were her best source for charitable giving. She had become quite proficient in the fine art of begging for contributions, and she did not shy away from using her family connections to get her foot in the proverbial door of Miami's wealthiest citizens.

She sighed as she considered the busy schedule that faced her the next day. Resigned to another night spent amongst paperwork scattered on her bed, Catherine began to gather up the papers on her desk. They would be going home with her.

She worked harder than many of the attorneys in her family's law firm ~ and that was no joke in spite of her family's condescending humor at the path she had chosen. Family occasions were rife with snide remarks at her expense. 'Little Ms. Do-Gooder' they called her, ridiculing her desire to help the less fortunate.

They never understood what it was like to feel vulnerable... to worry where one's next meal was coming from. They did not know the fear and anxiety experienced by those out of work, without resources. Her family and friends were isolated from such realities by fat bank accounts and aristocratic pedigrees.

Not so for Catherine. She might possess the pedigree and the trust fund, but she understood the feeling of being vulnerable, and the uncertainty when life unexpectedly knocked one for a loop.

A second, deeper sigh escaped her. Thoughts of her family always depressed her. Worse, thoughts of them often led to thoughts of _him_... frightful thoughts.

She pushed aside the unpleasant memories. She had long ago discovered the best tonic for fear and depression was hard work. It made her feel less hopeless. Several years ago, she had been lost and afraid, unwilling to step outside her wealthy condo in Coral Gables. She learned through experience that purposeful work kept the demons at bay. She finally gathered her courage and sold the condo, which had been more of a prison than a home... and now she lived in town, close to the aging church where her food kitchen was located.

Picking up the pile of paperwork, she began to transfer it to her leather satchel. She paused when a card fell from the pile and fluttered slowly to the floor. Bending down, Catherine rescued the errant rectangle and brought it closer to her eyes for examination.

It was the business card given to her by Lieutenant Caine.

A small smile played about Catherine's lips as she fiddled with the edges of the card and thought about the lieutenant. Against her will, he had extracted a promise from her that she wouldn't leave the office alone after dark.

_It sure didn't take me long to break that promise_, she thought wryly. Her mind turned to the murder of the young girl that had occurred not far from the church, and she cursed herself for her foolishness in staying so late at the office.

Recalling her conversation with Horatio and his stern admonishment that she not walk alone through the neighborhood after dark, she grew disturbed. Suddenly, she found herself wishing for a companion to walk alongside her as she made her way home. Without much hope, she abruptly walked out into the hallway and raised her voice in hopeful greeting. "Hello? Sister Mary-Martha? Father Ralph? Is anyone still here?"

Silence.

It was as she thought. Everyone had left for the evening. _Well, there is nothing to be done about it now, _she thought_._

She glanced again at the card in her hands. She wondered how the lieutenant might react if she were to call him and ask him to walk her home. She had his cell number... and she would not mind holding onto his arm as they walked together in the velvety darkness of a summer's evening. He had made more of an impression on her than she liked to admit. It wasn't just that he was handsome, though God knows the red hair and bright blue eyes were striking. It was something more. He was strong in a _good_ way. An honest way.

She had known another man who had also been handsome, who had been strong... but not in a good way. She felt a sudden chill run down her spine and she turned her thoughts away from that man. He was her past. He couldn't hurt her now.

Should she call the lieutenant? Play the damsel in distress? She laughed softly to herself. _Not likely! _He would think her a complete ninny ~ and rightfully so. A grown woman being afraid of the dark! This was _her_ neighborhood; she would not live in fear. She started to shove Horatio's card inside her desk drawer, but then thought twice and instead tossed it inside her satchel.

Determined to cast aside her fears and the phantoms from her past, she closed the office door firmly behind her. As she walked down the dimly lit hallway and up the stairs toward the door that led out onto the street, she thought again of the murder of Theresa Lopez and the drawing of the suspect that Horatio had left with her. She shuddered to think that such a gruesome murder took place not far from her soup kitchen.

The fear escalated when she considered that the man in the drawing might have been one of the homeless men her kitchen served. She recalled again the uneasiness she had felt a few nights ago. She had mentioned to Horatio the creepy feeling she'd experienced, the sense that someone was watching her as she walked home alone in the dark. Yet, there had been no one there when she turned to look. At the time, she had dismissed the feeling as the product of an overactive imagination.

_But now?_ Not so much...

She reached deep into her satchel and her hand closed possessively around the small object inside. Feeling the cold metal pressed firmly against her palm comforted her.

Catherine had not been speaking idly when she told Horatio that she could take care of herself. She had more than just a few self-defense moves to stop a would-be assailant... she had a small caliber pistol, and she knew how to use it. More important, she was not afraid to use it ~ if she had to.

She was no shrinking violet. She had learned a rough lesson years ago: stand up for yourself! Fight back immediately, and ask questions later. If she _had_ to, she could use that gun.

_He_ had taught her that lesson. It was a lesson she would never forget.

That was something the handsome lieutenant did not yet know about her. She was strong. Very strong. She had been tested... and survived.

Before stepping outside the door, she looked up and down the street, her hand securely wrapped around the small gun in her bag. Seeing nothing, she relaxed her grip. She then stepped outside, and locked the door behind her.

Horatio's words about walking on the streets at night had flustered her. The gun, however, calmed her down. She again began to believe she had imagined that feeling of being watched a few nights ago. She had no such feeling now. As for the murdered young woman, it was a terrible thing and she hoped the lieutenant would capture the monster responsible. However, she wouldn't change her way of life because of one unfortunate girl... or for an overly cautious police lieutenant, no matter how attractive he was.

* * *

_Miami-Dade Correctional Facility, 10:00 p.m._

The agitated racket pouring out of the cells abruptly stilled as Fat Jack Tolliver made his way down the long, harshly lit prison corridor. Accompanying his slow, menacing gait was the chilling sound of a large, hollow pipe, its iron heaviness making jarring contact with each of the solid metal bars it encountered.

Reaching the center of the passageway, Fat Jack paused and scanned the lengthy row of cells with casual contempt. Standing next to him was a younger man; however, the eyes of the cells' inhabitants were fixed collectively on Tolliver.

Fat Jack was a force to reckon with, at least as dangerous as and ten times wilier than the convicts under his care.

He was dressed in a crisp, smartly ironed uniform and he wore it with dandified grace. The plump white hands that lovingly caressed the iron pipe displayed well-manicured fingers, with shiny, carefully trimmed nails.

He was a big man, almost corpulent, and he had a full head of thick white hair that quarreled with his lively, florid complexion. His shrewd eyes, as green as the Emerald Isle he hailed from, stared watchfully out of a face that wore an affable expression. It was only when a man looked closer at Fat Jack that he noted the cunning in those careful eyes, and how they contrasted with the mask of geniality he wore.

Suddenly, a thick, belly laugh bubbled up out of Fat Jack and escaped into the ominously quiet corridor.

"Good evening, dearies!" he called out, his slight Irish accent echoing down the long aisle. The accent's sing-song cadence contrasted roguishly with the corridor's thick and heavy quiet. "And how are you, my darlings?"

He grinned as he heard the wave of low, surly mumblings begin to break from the bleak, gray cells.

"What's all this, dearies? Is the room service not up to your liking?" he mocked.

Turning his attention from the cells, Tolliver looked briefly at his companion, a too-thin young man whose uniform hung loosely from his body, giving him the appearance of a pallid scarecrow. More boy than man, the young guard had a sprinkling of acne across his cheekbones and forehead. He was forgettable. In fact, most times Fat Jack Tolliver did forget he was there. He frowned as he watched the young man's throat convulse nervously.

"You okay, Billy?" asked Tolliver, squinting at the boy.

Before Billy could answer, a mocking voice yelled, "Ol Billy, he be fine; he just chicken-shit. He looks so scared, I bet he piss his pants. Hey, boy - your mama know you're out this late?"

Guffaws of rude laughter erupted as the young guard cringed, causing Tolliver to look at him with contempt.

Another voice called out, this one an affected falsetto tinged with a Hispanic accent. "Hey, sweet boy, you want yourself some fun? You come inside here, spend a little quality time with Manuel - I give you some special fun, sweetheart - give you lots of love and romance. You beg for more. You like that, sweet boy?"

Tolliver's genial aspect faded as he watched Billy sway and blink his eyes nervously.

"For the love of Christ, lad, get a goddam hold on yourself," he whispered angrily in the young man's ear. "You let them mess with your head like this, you're never gonna last here."

But Billy was unable to respond. He tried to form a few words, but they wouldn't emerge. He looked helplessly at Fat Jack. The boy was not sure whom he feared more: the prisoners... or Tolliver.

"Go on, get back to the office," said Tolliver. "You aren't any good here." He shook his head with disgust as the young man almost scampered down the hallway to the crude sound of smacking lips and mocking invitations for romance.

_T'is a goddam lightweight, he is_, thought Tolliver, watching the retreating guard. _Only got this job because he's the warden's idiot nephew._

"Hey, Fat Boy," jeered another voice as the laughter continued, "lose your little playmate?"

Tolliver turned his face toward the cells' inhabitants, and stood there quietly, grinning with seeming good will. Slowly, the laughter began to subside as the hecklers studied the beaming man before them.

When he was certain he held their attention, he spoke in a good-natured growl. "Okay, 'girls,' lights out in ten minutes - and then it'll be time for you to be taking your beauty sleep."

Tolliver laughed gleefully as a string of disgruntled insults and imaginative curses about his parentage and his mother's morals were bandied his way.

_God! His lads! How he loved them!_

Nothing gave him more pleasure than engaging in an exchange of insults with the losers under his watch.

_As long as they understood who was boss..._

A muttered curse about the questionable circumstances of his birth rose singularly above the general noise, and Tolliver approached the cell where the owner of that voice resided.

Inside, a tall, thin Black man leaned languidly against the heavy iron bars, and glared at Tolliver. Hatred leaped from hostile brown eyes to sly green ones.

Suddenly, the prisoner's face split into an insulting grin, displaying a gold crown over the front tooth that he had cracked several years back in a nasty fight.

"You're a mighty big man with that pole in your hand... How 'bout you let me outta here, we do a little one-on-one, Fat Boy?"

A sunny smile lit up Tolliver's face as he gazed at the inmate, and he replied amiably, "Well, well. And look who it is. Good evening, friend Cicero. The top of the evening to you, lovely."

The corner of Cicero's mouth turned down with hatred. He allowed his eyes to study Tolliver, making a slow visual journey of the length and breadth of the guard. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Tolliver's substantial lower belly.

"So... you piss your pants, Fat Boy? I smell somethin' rank. I think it's comin' from you... or maybe that be your natural smell." His voice lingered over the word 'natural' so that it came out with cheek as 'natch - ur - rel.'

Tolliver burst into laughter, and he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Ah, Cicero... _such wit!_"

Cicero tilted his head, as if considering. "You know, Fat Boy, you ever think that maybe you're usin' that pole 'cause you ain't got no real equipment inside your pants? Maybe you're compensatin' somehow for what nature ain't gave you."

In response, Tolliver paused before speaking, a look of studied contemplation on his face.

"Well, now, Cicero... I did not realize you were reading Dr. Freud in your spare time. T'is a fine thing, dearie. A man needs to better himself. Help himself understand the human condition."

Slowly, a different smile began to materialize on the fat man's face, one a great deal less genial than the one he had been wearing. Cicero, despite being an alleged student of the 'human condition,' failed to notice the change in Tolliver's attitude.

"So, you jerk off while you be holdin' that pole in one hand and whatever it is 'neath all that fat in the other?"

"Cicero, Cicero..." began Tolliver, almost regretfully, his voice soft and menacing as he moved closer to the cell.

"You know, lovey, I must admit to always having had a certain curiosity about your sainted mother. Was she, perhaps, a student of the Classics?"

Confused, but on his guard at the mention of his mother, Cicero's face contorted with hatred. "The hell you say?"

"For example," continued Tolliver, as if Cicero hadn't spoken, "your name. 'Cicero.' T'is a fine name. Did you know, dearie, t'was the name of one of Ancient Rome's greatest orators. People would come from far away to hear the great man hold forth. Would you beknowing what an 'orator' is, lad? Well, darlin', t'is someone who speaks real pretty.

"Now, this Cicero of Ancient Rome, well, t'was assassinated, he was.

"And do you know why, dearie? T'was mainly because he didn't know when to keep his fat, fuckin' mouth shut. You'll want to be bearing that in mind, love."

The prisoner grabbed at the cell's bars, spitting out, "The shit you say, man!"

"Yes, I can see evidence of your brilliant elocution; t'is almost a laser-like connection to Rome's magnificent speaker, for sure." Tolliver laughed delightedly at the look of frustration on the inmate's face.

"Funny, isn't it? Thinking your sainted mother a student of the Classics! Rich, isn't it, Cicero?"

Loudly for the benefit of the other prisoners, Tolliver sang out, "I'm thinking our Cicero was most likely named after some road sign his dear old mother saw while she lay in the backseat of some beat-up old Caddie, her legs spread wide, and her heels pressed up against the roof of the car!"

Enraged, Cicero growled, "You let me out of this cell, dog, and I show you somethin' - won't be no fuckin' road sign either!"

With a panther-like grace that belied his stoutness, Tolliver moved quickly toward the iron bars of Cicero's cell and shoved his rosy face close. His eyes cold, he spat out, "You listen to me, dearie, and you listen good: you ever threaten me again and, by God, I'll be stringing your nuts into a necklace you can wear around your scrawny neck. Now, would you be having anything further to say to me?"

There were moments when Fat Jack Tolliver's mask of merry geniality gave way. This was one of those moments. Behind the good-natured façade beat a heart as black as most of those inside the cells he guarded, and a disposition at least as deadly.

When Fat Jack dropped the pose, a wise man knew to swallow his insults and his threats. It didn't take long before the smarter inmates learned this, and knew the signs to watch for. There were always a few, though, who needed to learn the lesson. And some, who needed a refresher course.

Cicero frowned at the white man and took his measure.

_Crazy-ass pecker,_ he thought, and decided to leave the battle for another day. He gave Tolliver his best glare, and then he sauntered over to his cot and lay down, turning his face toward the wall.

Tolliver grinned with satisfaction and backed away from the cell. "Just as I thought. Now that's a good girl," he said dismissively, slapping the pipe against the palm of his hand, and continuing his way down the corridor.

It was silent now, and the gentle slap of the pole against human flesh could be heard in the eerie quiet. Tolliver liked it like this, when one of his 'girls' got out of hand and he could use the strength of his will to force them back in line. He liked it when the corridor went silent. A lesson had been taught.

_He was Fat Jack Tolliver and he feared no one, and, by God, they would be wise to remember it!_

His good humor once more restored, Fat Jack continued down the corridor, again dragging the pipe against the prison bars. The grating noise the iron pipe made clashed with the carefree tune Tolliver whistled. The subdued angry mutterings of the prisoners as he passed each cell delighted him. Nothing made Tolliver happier than seeing his darlings sullen and frustrated. He knew they hated him ~ and he reveled in their hatred.

Finally, he came to a cell at the end of the corridor and stopped. He looked at the man inside, sitting quietly on the edge of the prison cot. His posture erect, his hands resting lightly on his knees, the man stared unseeingly at a spot on the gray wall facing him. He seemed oblivious to both Tolliver and his surroundings.

Fat Jack tilted his head, studying the inmate's profile.

He was a handsome man. His nose and brow were well formed, his chin strong, his hair thick, black and wavy. He was tall and powerfully built, and wore his prison jumpsuit with certain panache.

_Aye, but he is a weird one_, thought Tolliver, who found the prisoner enigmatic. Fat Jack had no trouble figuring out most of his darlings, but this fellow was different, and Tolliver found himself both repelled and fascinated by him.

He reminded Fat Jack of a King Cobra. Tolliver remembered watching an old National Geographic special about the deadly animal; he was a magnificent beast, truly worthy of the royal title.

The imposing reptile was known to position himself silently, and remain as still as a statue. Patiently, he'd wait, watching his prey approach. When his prey was fully in sight, the animal would then rise up a good third of his body, his neck hooding out on both sides, and strike suddenly and repeatedly at the creature foolish enough to approach.

Tolliver chuckled to himself; it was a good comparison, the snake and the inmate.

Determined to get a reaction out of the man, Fat Jack rapped his pipe twice against the iron bars, and the sound rang out loudly in the silent corridor.

"Hey, dearie, Avon calling!" He laughed at his own feeble joke, but grew quickly annoyed at the inmate's continuing lack of response.

Frowning, his amiability now gone, Tolliver snarled at the prisoner. "Hey, dearie, did you not hear me? It's good evenin' I'm sayin' to you. Do you not have ears that work? Is it a kind word you'd be denying your host?"

Finally, there was movement inside the cell.

The man slowly turned his attention away from the wall and directed a basilisk gaze toward his tormentor. A chill went up Fat Jack Tolliver's spine as he looked into the eyes of the inmate. His were arresting eyes - pale blue, almost devoid of color, and fringed with thick black lashes. The contrast of the black lashes against the nearly colorless eyes was disconcerting: the eyes appeared almost blank, as if there were no soul behind them.

A dreadful smile stretched across the inmate's face. Softly he said, "Good evening, Mr. Tolliver. I've been waiting for you."

* * *

_Horatio's House, 11:00 p.m. _

Horatio unlocked the door to his house after taking a keen look at his surroundings. Experience had taught him to take nothing for granted, especially this late at night. He entered the house and walked straight through the living room and into the bedroom, dropping his badge on the bureau as he passed by.

_God, it's late_, he thought, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto a side chair.

He carefully unholstered his weapon, checking to make certain it was secured, and then placed it on the nightstand near his bed. His weapon was never out of reach, not even when he was sleeping. There was always the chance that he might quickly have need of it - even in the middle of the night.

That, too, he had learned from experience.

He sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes and removing his socks. _Damn but he was tired!_ He and the team had worked until 8:30, trying to get caught up on the several cases they were working. Afterward, Calleigh and Eric suggested they grab Frank and get a bite to eat at the local watering hole known for its Mojitos and burgers. Calleigh was the Mojito girl; the rest of them had nursed beers over the grease-plate special.

Horatio had tried to pay attention to the conversation around him; he was usually pretty good at turning off the events of the day. This time it was different.

Memories of the sight of the murdered Theresa Lopez had stayed with him all through the evening, intruding upon his time with his friends. The murder creeped him out. It had all the signs of being a cult murder ~ a particularly nasty one.

Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, his thoughts drifted back to his brief session with Catherine Kent.

Calleigh had classified Catherine as the 'wonky' member of her family. Well, he could see it. There was something odd about a woman who would leave behind the money and prestige associated with a family like the Kents. And for what? To hide out in some cubbyhole in a nearly deserted church in a rundown part of town? It _was_ wonky. Certainly it was odd.

There was something odd, too, about the way Catherine Kent had affected him.

Once he had gotten past the Plain Jane façade, he found himself attracted to her. She was a pretty woman who chose for some reason to downplay her assets. What was her story? And why did he care?

Schoolmarms, Sunday school teachers and do-gooders had never been his style. Still weren't. But _she_ had a back-story; he was certain of it. And a part of him very much wanted to discover what it was.

**To be continued.**


	4. Chapter 4

**HEARTLESS**

Chapter 4 - Special Delivery

_The next morning..._

The sharp, pungent odor of disinfectant assailed Horatio's nostrils even before he entered Tom Loman's domain.

The medical examiner stood in a corner of the large, brightly lit room. He was scrubbing his soapy hands under the slender column of water which streamed from the faucet into a stainless steel sink. Latex gloves that he had earlier stripped off lay haphazardly at the bottom of the sink, still covered in blood and other interesting matter. Within the sink, whorls of reddish brown water coupled with bits of jellied pulp slowly circled the drain before beginning a final, syrupy descent down the wide-mouthed pipe.

"Tom, what do you have for me?" asked Horatio as the doctor briskly shook water from his hands and then reached for a paper towel to dry them.

Loman glanced in Horatio's direction and sighed. "This is a grisly one, Lieutenant. Beautiful girl... breaks my heart. Your killer left her face intact." He pointed vaguely in the direction of the cold steel table where the young woman lay, a large white cloth now draped over her chest and midsection.

Tossing the used towel into a trash receptacle, Loman's eyes looked directly into Horatio's. "I just completed the autopsy... everything will be in my report and on your desk tomorrow morning."

"Give me the barebones version now, Tom."

"Barebones, huh? Okay, Lieutenant, here's the barebones: that girl was still alive when someone cut out her heart. At the time of extraction, the heart was still beating."

"What?" Horatio's brows rose in surprise. During his years as a law enforcement officer, Horatio had experienced his share of horrors, but this was a new and bizarre twist. "How can you tell?"

"There are certain physical indications - it's all in my report. But there isn't any doubt: Ms. Lopez was alive when the killer removed her heart."

It took Horatio a moment to digest Loman's words as well as the lurid picture conjured up by them. He walked toward the body and gazed into the girl's face. _You didn't deserve this_, he thought. Tom was right; she was beautiful. He hated thinking what her remaining moments on the planet must have been like.

After several seconds, he turned away and frowned. "There's something I don't understand... her chest was bloody, but not the surrounding area. Shouldn't there have been a lot more blood at the scene?"

"Well, of course, there should have... you don't cut a beating heart out of someone without a pool of the stuff. Unless..." Loman's words trailed off as he looked up at the ceiling while considering what he was going to say next.

"Unless?" prompted Horatio.

The doctor met Horatio's eyes. "_Unless_ you know what you're doing. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing. There's a certain elegance to his technique."

"Elegance," repeated Horatio, staring again into the face of the dead girl. "That's an odd word for it, Doctor."

Loman shrugged. "Not really. The technique your killer utilized was spare and knowledgeable."

"You're telling me the perpetrator is a surgeon?"

"I'd say so... is or _was_."

Horatio thought about this. "Hm. Still, there should have been blood at the scene..."

"Yes... at the scene and on the killer."

"And yet," said Horatio, "everything was clean. There was no blood."

Loman said nothing, watching the lieutenant.

"Which means we have a second crime scene."

"That would be my guess," said Loman.

"Okay..." Lost in thought, Horatio absently rubbed the back of his neck. "Witnesses report last having seen the girl standing outside Saint Ignatius Church, talking with an unidentified man. She appeared shaken by their conversation, and quickly moved away. Let's assume he's our perp... so he follows her away from the church... perhaps down a dark street..."

"And perhaps he uses chloroform to subdue her," interrupted Loman. "Traces of it were found in her blood and stomach."

Horatio nodded. "Okay, so he follows her, waits for an opportunity to confront her... somewhere dark and isolated... he uses the chloroform to render her unconscious. What then? Takes her to another place to remove the heart? A place where he wouldn't be disturbed... where perhaps his instruments are.

"A second crime scene," he mused, "and one likely to be pretty bloody. It would be a place where he'd feel safe while he went about his business. It would have to be quiet... off the beaten-track. Maybe an abandoned building... where the girl's struggles wouldn't be overheard by others.

"Any indications whether she ever regained consciousness?" asked Horatio.

"I found residue of adhesive about her lips."

"So he used some sort of tape to muffle any sounds she made. That might indicate she was conscious or that he feared she would regain consciousness and cry out. Did you find any trace on the body?"

"She was pretty clean, Lieutenant. Clinically clean." Loman pointed toward the dead girl's hands and fingers. "Notice the slight inflammation on her palms and the blistering around the fingertips? The assailant was very careful - the extremities and trunk were wiped down with a solution of sodium hypochlorite, the application heaviest around the hands and fingers."

"Bleach? Damn... well, that will certainly screw any evidence of trace.

"But why was she abducted, murdered, and then brought back just a few streets from where she was taken? What's the connection? Why not simply dispose of the body elsewhere?"

Loman turned away. He realized Horatio was thinking aloud and no response was required of him.

"And the heart - where is it? What did he do with it?"

"Maybe he ate it," said the doctor matter-of-factly as he picked up the clipboard with his sheet of the day's scheduled autopsies. He checked off Lopez's name, and then looked up at Horatio. "You know, there are people who have a fetish for the taste of human flesh and organs. Maybe our Ms. Lopez had the unfortunate luck to have met up with one of them."

"Maybe," said Horatio doubtfully. "That still doesn't explain why he returned the girl's body to the location where he abducted her. If it was... if his intention was to..." Horatio frowned, unable to finish the thought for a moment. Feeling queasy, he swallowed hard, and then tried again.

"If the idea was to... to consume the heart, then why bring the body back to its original location? Why not keep it? What about her other organs - any missing?"

Loman shook his head. "No, the other organs are still intact."

"Why wouldn't he keep the body and..." Again Horatio broke off the sentence. He struggled with his thoughts, repelled by the direction in which they were going.

The doctor raised his brows. "Why wouldn't he keep the body and harvest the organs for future meals? Is that what you were going to ask?"

"Yes. Would he be so particular in his tastes that he'd only be interested in the heart? Toss everything else out? Even so, that's just it: he didn't just toss the body aside. He very carefully returned it to its original location... careful not to disturb the face so we'd be able to easily identify her. "

Horatio's eyes returned again to the body of Theresa Lopez. His brows drew together in a troubled 'V' over his forehead and he tilted his head slightly to study the girl's face.

"No," he continued after a moment, "I don't think he saw this girl as a meal, Tom. I think she is a 'calling card.' He's _talking_ to us, Doctor. We need to figure out what it is he is saying."

Loman smiled, his face taking on an almost beatific expression. "No doubt you will, Lieutenant, no doubt you will.

"Look, Horatio, I have another 'guest' to tend to - a floater. Likely to be a lot nastier to autopsy than that lovely young thing over there... interested in watching?"

Horatio knew when he was not wanted. For the first time since entering the medical examiner's turf, he grinned. "I think not... I'll leave you to your work, Doctor. I've some of my own to attend to."

* * *

_Nine thirty, a.m., Miami-Dade Correctional Facility..._

Fat Jack Tolliver was not a happy man.

He was confused and disturbed. Moreover, he was frightened - an emotion foreign to him. He had the creeping sense that he was being observed. Of course he wasn't - it was just the aftereffects of his conversation the previous evening with the strange inmate who occupied the last cage down the line in the cell block. He knew this logically.

Emotionally... well, that was another thing.

He suppressed the urge to look behind him. He couldn't escape the notion that the prisoner's eyes were on him, even here in the small room that served as an office for the facility's prison guards. _Those queer, lifeless eyes... enough to give a man the shakes_, he thought, remembering their basilisk stare. A chill crept up his spine. _No wonder I've got the heebie-jeebies._

He leaned back in his chair while holding up an envelope close to his eyes. Squinting, he tried to figure out what might be inside. Giving up, he lowered the envelope and absent-mindedly fingered it. Briefly, his mind reviewed the curious conversation he had with the prisoner the night before.

_"I've been waiting for you, Mr. Tolliver," said Josiah Barton._

_"Waiting for me, is it, dearie? And what would you be waiting on me for?" asked Fat Jack._

_"We have business to transact, sir."_

_"Do we now? What sort of business could there ever be between the likes of you and me?"_

_Barton's pale and icy eyes held Tolliver in thrall, refusing to let the man look away. In spite of himself, Tolliver shivered. There was something evil in the man._

_An ancient evil. It brought to mind pre-civilization temples and strange artifacts cast centuries ago of forsaken deities - vile and malevolent gods who brought terror to the heart of primitive man. _

_A warning bell began to clang in Fat Jack's Irish Catholic brain. His Catholicism was a patchwork quilt of parochial school teachings and convenient compromise that gave him license to do as he pleased. And do as he pleased he did, and Church be damned! He feared neither man nor institution, and he always believed God was a member of his battalion in his handling of the animals in his prison; but this... this gave him pause. This was different._

_Why it was so, he couldn't say. He felt an almost irresistible urge to make the sign of the cross in the hopes of divine protection. Instead, he stood very still, mesmerized by those compelling eyes. _

_"I want you to provide a service," commanded Barton._

_The man's hand reached sinuously beneath the cushion of his cot, easing itself one way and then another, in its quest for what was hidden. Again the comparison to a cobra came to Tolliver's mind as he watched with fascination the hand as it undulated beneath the cushion in search of the object. Finally, Barton found what he was searching for and pulled it out, holding it in his hands._

_Suddenly, in one quick, fluid moment, the prisoner rose from the cot. Like the deadly reptile preparing to strike, he approached the guard with an abrupt swiftness. Startled, Tolliver involuntarily took a step backward, feeling vulnerable in spite of the bars that separated the two men. _

_"I want you to take this, and deliver it to the address on the front of the envelope. The recipient is expecting it. I need you to take care of it in the morning. Not the afternoon and not a week from now. Tomorrow... in the morning. Am I clear?"_

_"And I'm not your servant boy - am I clear, dearie?" Tolliver's protest sounded weak, even to his own ears._

_Barton said nothing. His terrible, unfathomable eyes pinned Fat Jack, and the guard found his strength and will slowly draining away. _

_"What makes you think I'd do anything for you?" he asked uneasily._

_Barton smiled. "Because if you don't, you'll die."_

_Something in the smile and the tone in Barton's voice convinced Fat Jack that this was no idle threat. It was a simple statement. A fact._

_And its chilling utterance was terrifying to a man long used to terrifying others._

The recollection of the conversation was upsetting to Tolliver. What was it about Josiah Barton that made him believe the man when he issued that threat in such a cold, silky manner?

Abruptly, he sat up in his chair and shoved the envelope inside his desk. Frowning, he began moving about the papers inside the drawer until his hand finally grasped what he was seeking. He pulled out a worn deck of cards. His 'worry' cards.

Whenever Fat Jack had a difficult problem to puzzle out, he would pull out the deck of cards, shuffle them a few times, and then begin the slow, methodical process of carefully balancing player cards against each other. Slowly, layer by layer, an uneasy structure would rise, held together only by precision and counter-balance. With each new level, his thoughts would grow more focused, more centered upon the task before him. Whatever worried him would recede into the background. The break in anxiety allowed him to regroup, and later face a worrisome situation more relaxed and from an entirely new angle.

His well-kept hands now parted the frayed cards with practiced efficiency and began to shuffle them with a skill worthy of a river boat gambler. With surprising dexterity, plump fingers quickly and gracefully began to erect the first level of his house of cards.

Several minutes later, his young colleague, Billy Williams, timorously entered the office he shared with Fat Jack. He noted the drawn brows and look of concentration on the older guard's face and his spirits sank. He wasn't sure which was worse: an effusive Fat Jack or a somber one.

What he was sure of was that it was never a good sign when Fat Jack had the worry cards on the table. It meant he was in a bad mood and likely to be as mean as any one of those old 'gators sunning themselves alongside the highway that led to the prison. Resolving to be as quiet as possible and not attract the ire of the volatile man, Billy slipped quietly into the chair behind the desk that faced Tolliver's.

Billy did not much care for his co-worker. In fact, Billy did not much care for his job at the Miami-Dade Correctional Facility. It was only his lackluster performance in high school and his uncle's beneficence that had forced him into this line of work. He had no marketable skills. His father's brother was the warden of the facility and had been prevailed upon by dear old dad to get his boy a position. Billy would have rather spent his time listening to music in his room, reading science fiction novels and sponging off his parents. He didn't like having to grow up and deal with a nine-to-five job. Particularly this job, one for which he was so ill-suited.

He dreamed of rocket ships and far-off galaxies; instead he was stuck in this cesspool of human flotsam.

He often wished he were back in high school. He hated his life. Moreover, he hated Fat Jack Tolliver - although he was afraid to show it.

Without looking up from the rising structure he was building, Fat Jack's voice floated across the desk, mean and snarky. "Mornin', laddie. So... got any starch in your panties today, dearie?"

"Morning, Mr. Tolliver," replied the boy, a slight tremor in his voice.

"That was a pretty bad show you put on last night in front of the girls, dearie. Runnin' off like an addled pup, your tail tucked between your legs... d'ya not understand how it is? You never - _never!_ - let 'em see you scared. Soon as you do, you're through. They sniff out your weakness and use it against you."

Fat Jack laughed without humor. "Didn't your fine uncle not share with you the rules of the game? Or perhaps t'is too many years he's spent in an upstairs office... livin' in an ivory palace instead of in the trenches like you and me."

Billy swallowed painfully, the large Adam's apple in his scrawny throat visibly bobbing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tolliver. The men in here... they freak me out. Doesn't it bother you, knowing they'd cut your throat in a heartbeat if given half a chance?"

Tolliver continued carefully stacking one card against another as he began building the third level of his house. "Bother me? Nah, doesn't bother me at all. T'would be a fortunate man who got the jump on Fat Jack Tolliver, and that's a fact. It's me who'd be doing the cutting first, laddie, and that's something you can bank on."

Billy did not reply. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Images of alligators in dangerous repose again crossed his mind as he watched his colleague deftly handle the cards. One wrong word, and the prisoners would be Billy's least concern. He sometimes wondered if he should inform his uncle of the sort of man he had him working with, but pragmatism forced him to admit that his uncle probably wouldn't care.

Fat Jack Tolliver was good at keeping order, and that is what his uncle cared about.

"Got a task for you, dearie. I'm going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself after your disgraceful performance last night."

"What do you need, Mr. Tolliver?" Billy could feel his heart begin to beat just a little faster. _Is he sending me in there alone? I can't do it! I can't go in there alone_, he thought, thinking of the long corridor of menacing, violent men.

Finally Fat Jack raised his eyes from the delicately wrought structure and evaluated the young man before him. Irritation mingled with contempt as the guard watched beads of sweat begin to form on the boy's forehead. _He's scared... all I'd have to say is BOO! and t'is certain I am that he'd be shitting his pants_, thought Tolliver.

"I'm needing you to make a delivery for me." Tolliver opened his desk drawer and pulled the envelope out. "Here, take this."

Billy reached for the envelope and looked at the writing on the front. _Paul Lockhart._ "Who is Paul Lockhart?" he asked.

Fat Jack frowned. "You don't need to know that. You just need to deliver that envelope to Mr. Lockhart at the address listed. _Now_."

A petulant look crossed Billy's face. "But I just got here, Mr. Tolliver."

"Aye, and now you're just leaving."

"Look, Mr. Tolliver, couldn't someone else deliver the..." Billy started to object when Fat Jack formed a tight fist. With unexpected swiftness, the man smashed it into the house of cards, causing the structure to quickly collapse as the cards flew helter-skelter across the desk.

"Damn you, are you setting yourself at cross purposes from me, boy?" he roared, causing the shaken Billy to raise his palm upward as if warding off an imaginary blow.

"No sir, no sir!" Billy quickly assured him. "Of course I'll deliver the envelope. I'll go now... right now."

"Damn right, you will! I don't ask a thing twice, and t'would be wise for you to remember that, dearie! Now, here's the thing: you deliver the envelope and then you leave. You don't make chit-chat. You don't ask questions. You don't hang about. You think you can do that, lad, or would it be too much for you?"

Fat Jack glared at the young man who was clasping and unclasping his hands. "I can handle it, Mr. Tolliver," he whispered.

" CAN'T HEAR YOU, DEARIE! SPEAK UP!" yelled Tolliver.

"I... I can take care of it, sir. I'll take care of it right away," Billy promised, his voice shaky but stronger.

"And what would you be sayin' to your uncle about all this?"

"Nothing! I would say nothing, sir!"

Tolliver folded his arms across his chest and looked Billy Williams straight in the eye. "Yes... that's more like it. I can see we've reached an understanding. Now, go on, get moving. I want this letter delivered before noon or t'will not be a pleasant atmosphere in this office, if you get my meaning, dearie."

Billy Williams did indeed get Fat Jack's meaning. He nodded quickly and hurried from the office, intent on delivering the envelope. _And_ delivering it well before noon.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Billy parked his vehicle on a dusty street that had seen better days.

It was a depressing part of town, drab and dreary. Even the bright Miami sunshine did little to alleviate the gloom. A few ramshackle buildings shared space with a large number of vacant lots. Trash was strewn about the empty spaces, and empty, sometimes broken, liquor bottles rested haphazardly along street curbs. The area reminded Billy of an Old West ghost town. Uneasily, he sat in his car, listening to the far-off sound of an unhappy dog's incessant barking. It was the only sound audible in the strange stillness.

Billy found it difficult to believe that this was the address Tolliver had sent him to, and he looked again at the envelope and saw that it was so.

Sighing, he finally got out of the car. He was about to cross the street, but hesitated, taking a moment to observe the house sitting on the large lot across from where he was standing.

It was a sizable structure, and at one time the house must have been a beauty. Like the neighborhood, its best days were behind it and it was now run-down and seedy-looking. A broken and rusty chain-link fence surrounded the house, sealing it off from the abandoned lots on either side. The ugly fence must have been added as an afterthought when someone still cared about protecting the house against vagrants. It wasn't a fit with the house's former distinction. The fence's state of disrepair hinted that the owner had given up any pretense at security.

The thought occurred to Billy that perhaps security measures were no longer needed. The place gave off bad vibes, and the skin at the back of Billy's neck crawled. A bum would be pretty bad off not to prefer the openness of the street to the spookiness of that big old house.

Billy's eyes narrowed as he stared at the sagging front porch, evaluating whether its ancient, warped boards would hold his insignificant weight. In the same way the sun is unkind to an older woman, illuminating every line and crevice on her face, it refused to spare the old house any dignity. It harshly brought into focus the peeling paint, the rotting shutters, and the boards nailed over two of its once grand windows.

The walkway leading to the house's entrance had buckled with age, and weeds grew between the cracks in the concrete. Old, overgrown trees and bushes closely embraced the exterior as if trying to guard the residence from prying eyes.

Yes, it was a spooky old place and it gave Billy a creepy feeling - as if it had personality and a will of its own.

The old porch creaked when Billy stepped on to it, the harsh sound startling him. Taking a deep breath, he knocked firmly on the door. He was almost convinced no one would answer, finding it hard to believe that anyone could really be inside the old place.

Surprisingly, the door began to open almost immediately. "Yes?"

His voice tremulous in spite of his best efforts, Billy replied, "Mr. Paul Lockhart?"

"Who wishes to know?" inquired the breathy voice.

"Sir, I have something for you. I've been asked to deliver an envelope to you."

A beat of time went by, and then the door opened just wide enough for Billy to enter. "Come in, then."

Billy entered the house and found himself standing in a dark foyer. His eyes, used to the glare of Miami's morning sun, had trouble making anything out in the darkness, and he stood there confused and temporarily blinded. The temperature inside was several degrees cooler and Billy felt uncomfortably moist as his perspiration mingled with the dank atmosphere in the small room.

"Let me see the envelope, please."

The young man pulled the envelope out of his pants' pocket and handed it over. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness, he stared at the man before him.

Lockhart was of middle age, perhaps fifty, if Billy had to hazard a guess - it was hard to determine in the gloom of the vestibule. A scarf was wrapped tightly about his throat, cravat style. Billy wondered briefly if something under the scarf accounted for the oddness of the man's voice. His speech seemed laborious; short phrases were interspersed with peculiar burps of air. The hands that held the envelope were elegant with long, pale slender fingers. The thought occurred to Billy that the man's fingers were almost spider-like, and disquiet swept through him at the thought.

As if reading his mind, the man glanced up at Billy and smiled. It was an unusual smile, both sinister and engaging, and it made the boy suddenly very afraid.

"I've been waiting for this." A small air burp erupted from Lockhart, and then, "Thank you." One of his slender hands reached out to grasp Billy's shoulder in a gesture of thanks, and Billy shrank from the contact. Soft laughter vied with a gasp of air. "Something wrong?"

"No... I have to leave though. Get back to work..."

"Really? I was going to ask you to tea, young sir," said the man, his oxygenated tone amused. "Well, then, run along. You've done your good deed for the day."

Billy backed out of the doorway, only too happy to comply. He heard mild, breathy laughter as he closed the door behind him.

Relieved he was out on the street again, Billy inhaled deeply. He was grateful for the hot Miami sun that bathed his face, the sound of the mutt barking several streets away, and even for the trashed lots on either side of Lockhart's residence. It now seemed very welcoming.

Being in the strange presence of Paul Lockhart had been a very brief, nightmarish experience. The man was disturbing, no two ways about it.

Billy climbed into his car and began whistling a tune of some sort, happy to be driving away from the nasty old house.

He briefly considered his colleague and suddenly grinned. _Spending the day with Fat Jack doesn't seem so terrible after this_, he thought. Fat Jack was a mean bully, and he covered his menace with a lilting voice and a false, mercurial charm. But he wasn't crazy.

Billy wasn't sure that could be said of the man inside the creepy old house.

* * *

Paul Lockhart walked down the dim hallway to a small room. Like the rest of the house, it was shrouded in darkness. He clicked on the small table lamp that sat on the scarred, mahogany desk.

He closed his eyes briefly, a feeling of almost terrible joy taking hold of him. He had been waiting for this. A message from His Master.

Opening his eyes, he leaned forward and held the envelope beneath the weak yellow glow of the lamp. His spidery fingers quickly unsealed it. He pulled out the single page.

**MY FRIEND - THE TIME IS NOW. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.**

A thrill of anticipation coursed rapidly through Lockhart's body. _The time is now._

He did indeed know what to do.

* * *

_Twelve noon, the neighborhood surrounding Saint Ignatius Church..._

"Alright, Eric, Calleigh, this is what I want you to do... Use the church as ground zero." Horatio adjusted the sunglasses he wore and looked up into the bright afternoon sunlight.

_Not a cloud in the sky_, he thought briefly, his eyes dazzled by the azure blueness above him. _A beautiful day._

He and his people were standing down the street from Saint Ignatius, close to the dreary ally where Theresa Lopez' body had been found. The tall spires of the church were clearly visible; Saint Ignatius was still the visual center of the once-nice neighborhood.

He saw that Calleigh and Eric were looking at him expectantly, awaiting his instructions.

Something was off with Calleigh today; he could see it in her forced smile. Glancing at Eric, he noted a stiffness in his posture. _Now what?_ he wondered irritably.

Officially, he wasn't supposed to know they were a couple, and he didn't address their private business with them. He only hoped it remained private. They were good CSIs - his best. Moreover, they were his friends, and he didn't want to delve into their personal affairs.

Horatio wasn't a fan of 'office romances'. They seldom boded well for the couple involved or the people around them. After a brief honeymoon period, the problems inherent in any relationship began to insert themselves into the office environment, and inevitably it would begin to affect work and morale.

Horatio didn't want anything to interrupt the smooth operation of his lab. A time or two, he'd thought of speaking to Eric about the relationship and cautioning him about keeping it out of the office, but he squelched the impulse almost immediately. His people were professionals; he trusted them to act accordingly.

A reticent man, especially concerning the affairs of others, he had thus far continued to remain silent. As long as the two kept the relationship out of the lab, he was content to ignore it. If that were to change, however...

_If that changes_, he thought grimly, _I'll be forced to have __a conversation with both that I really don't want to have_.

"H?" asked Eric, noting his boss's delay in issuing instructions.

Horatio looked at him and continued. "Use the church as ground zero. Ms. Lopez was last seen standing outside the entrance. From there, she went down one of the side streets, followed by the suspect - we _think_. I want you two to split up. Knock on doors, talk to people in the streets, look around. Try to find out if anyone saw or heard anything the other night. We know the girl was abducted - taken to another location and killed. The body was then brought back here. There's a reason the killer returned the body here; I want to know what that reason is. Maybe someone saw him leaving with Lopez... or returning the body. Maybe they're afraid to talk. Make 'em talk, people."

Eric nodded. "We're on it."

"You've got it," said Calleigh. "It won't be easy, Horatio, will it?"

"No," he agreed. "You said yesterday that people get a case of amnesia when cops come around, asking questions. Use your charm, Calleigh - try to engage them. Okay?"

An awkward smile suddenly appeared on her face. She glanced at Eric, who looked away. Quickly turning her attention back to Horatio, she replied, "I'll do my best, Horatio."

"I know you will. Okay, get to it, please."

Calleigh and Eric walked away, and Horatio's glance settled once again on Saint Ignatius. He wondered if there was a connection between the church and the girl's murder.

He was soon to find out.

His phone began to buzz and he pulled it from his pocket. "Horatio Caine," he answered.

His eyes instantly grew alert as he listened to the frantic voice. Even as he spoke, he began walking toward the church, his pace quickening with each step.

"Okay... it's okay... calm down... just leave everything as it is. I'll be there in a minute - I'm on my way."

**To be continued.**


End file.
